Ken Bruen - Rilke on Black

“Them?”

“You, the others. When you’ve got my shape, you’ve got to be quick and very very unexpected.”

I laughed out loud.

“Rest easy Dex, you are both of those, in spadefuls.”

“Speaking of spades. I see Miz Lisa has a whole new sparkle... not knocked up is she?”

“Back off Dex. I don’t need a taste of the qualities you work at.”

He moved over to the sofa, stretched out and said in a quiet voice, “I’m going to tell you a story Nick.”

“Don’t feel you have to Dex.”

“Just listen up, alright. I’ve always had a mouth. No, don’t protest, I shout it off sometimes.”

Then he stopped. I waited and he said, “Shit, wish I smoked, this is a story that needs an aura of nicotine. Well, we’ll plough on. I was in a nightclub a few years back. I got into a beef with two guys... two black guys. Words were spoken. Are you with me Nick?”

“I’ve got the drift.”

But as James Joyce lamented, they weren’t the right words.

“Fuck, I did my best but they didn’t seem riled. Worse, I don’t think they took me seriously. So I threw some money down in front of them and said, ‘Hey, sorry about the hassle, have a bunch of bananas on me.’”

“Then I hope you left.”

“I scored. Fuck-knows eh. A Chinese-American lady... or was she from Hackney? It’s not relevant. I forgot about the apes.”

“They didn’t?”

“Wot, I told you this story already? I came out of the club, the lady on my arm, heavy sex on my mind, and this guy puts a knife in my heart. Now all I felt when I went down was ‘Watcha wanna do that for?’ The doctors said that you don’t live if your heart gets touched. But here I am. Is that a Country song or wot?”

“And the moral?”

“Hey Nick, it’s a story. Not a lesson. Your turn, amigo.”

“For what?”

“For a story. Here’s how it works. I’ll tell one, your turn then. Thus we bond and grow to love each other over the camp-fire. Gottit?”

“I don’t have stories.”

“Sure you do, any yarn will do. Even a bouncing one.”

“Nope, no story.”

He hopped up and seemed genuinely disappointed. I knew I’d failed some bizarre test. He said, “You’re a hard fucking trip man. But I promise you one thing. I downright guarantee it. Before this whole deal is done, you’ll have a story. Whether you fucking want it or not.”

Lisa didn’t show for two days. Then arrived, her eyes puffy. She’d been crying or getting high or both.

“Gimme a hug,” she asked.

I’m a bit awkward at that spontaneity but I gave it a shot. She wasn’t impressed.

“Call that a hug. Put yer pecker in it boy.”

It didn’t lead to sex. My fault. She got that look a women gets when they’re going to put the rough questions.

“Why did you never marry, Nick?”

“I didn’t plan not to, but one day I woke up to discover I was forty-two. It just got away from me. My career came first.”

“What career?”

“Exactly.”

“You could marry me baby.”

“I could, but I won’t.”

She flared.

“You’re such a sweet-talker Nicky. The old honeyed words. You could lie to me.”

“Why?”

“It’s called communication, to ease social interaction.”

“No Lisa, it’s called lying.”

“Didn’t you ever want to have children?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No.”

That more or less put an end to that chat. I hadn’t felt like explaining. How I was afraid I’d be my father if I had a child. With my luck, a boy would grow and give me beatings. A little girl, that was the worst scenario. I knew I’d love her more than safety and she’d expose a vulnerability I couldn’t bear.

Most times I barely took care of myself. Lisa crashed early and I put her to bed. She looked almost innocent as she slept. A time later she thrashed and shouted. Most of what she said was incomprehensible but I thought she called a name a few times.

It wasn’t mine.

It sounded like Don... but I couldn’t be sure. What was certain, she was far from pleased with him. Was it “Donny”... hardly Donny Osmond though that would explain the nightmare.

Come morning, I thought I’d lay on a treat. Set the table real nice, had coffee perked, toast heating and the smell of down-home bacon. Centre of the table one red rose. Water on its petals.

Just kidding about the rose. At seven in the morning, one flower is hard to come by in Clapham.

She liked it and after she said, “I want to tell you something.”

I wanted to ask why everyone was suddenly telling me stories but decided to let it go. She began, “My mother was a lady of the night... well of any time. A hooker, or should I say prostitute. Ugly word isn’t it?”

I thought so.

Lisa played around with a crust. Moved it back and forth on her greasy plate. Her voice lost all accent, inflexion... as if she was reading a script.

“Have you noticed all these syndromes recently? Everything’s syndromised now. Perhaps I have PPSS. Wanna hazard a guess at that one?”

I could have made a reasonable shot but instinct said to keep it locked down. This wasn’t a scene for two players. I shook my head.

“Post Prostitution Stress Syndrome. Makes it sound almost respectable, yeah you could put it in a CV. Emma, that was my momma’s name. She didn’t know sheet about syndromes but she sure knew the book on stress. She used to say, ‘If I have to see one more jonny fish, I’ll vomit.’ Cute name eh Nick... what she called a prick.”

I definitely had nothing to say now. She continued, “‘I’ve seen hundreds of them and I’ve never seen one that looked nice’... that’s what Emma said. Don’t you think that’s kinda sad, Nicky? Not one pretty prick in all her years.”

I got up, made some fresh coffee. She wasn’t finished though.

“She was a nice-looking woman, but by the time I was a teenager, she’d gone down the toilet and her clients got rough. They became more interested in me. You know what I’m saying Nick?”

I poured the coffee and knew too well. She caught my wrist.

“I got good at it Nick. Is this making you hot? Want me to be a little girl for you?”

I sat down and she released my wrist. I asked, “Where’s your mother now?”

“Fuck knows. End of lesson.”

I said, “It’s my turn now, is that it?”

“For what? Rotating the chores?”

“I know how this works Lisa, you tell me a story... then I reciprocate and...”

“The fuck you talking about mister? You think I want to trade pieces of my momma for some of your memories?”

To my astonishment, tears were rolling down her face and she muttered, “You bastard, you jonny fish...”

They kept changing the rules. No sooner had I got a handle on the game, they moved the flaming goal posts.

Thing is, I did have a story: I wish now I’d told it to one of them. I dunno which would have understood the best... but I ought to have gone for it. Here’s the story, less heralded now alas.

As a child in the beginning, I couldn’t understand what they were saying to me. Then, I could understand but I didn’t know how to respond. Finally, I could understand and reply and wanted to do neither.

Autograph books had a short burst of popularity in our neighbourhood, like hula hoops. Course, you could never get within spit of anyone famous so the book got full of bus conductors, milkmen, anyone who could write. My mother’s sister had been good to me. Prevented my dad from thrashing me on more than a few occasions. She wrote in my book, “The cause of many a silent tear.”

And broke my heart.

I grew up believing I’d hurt the only person ever to show me kindness. That weighed heavily on my soul and undoubtedly affected my behaviour. Only very recently, I’d found the book among old things. The pages were mildewed but legible. Who the fuck was Reg the Milkie or Tim the Postie. Christ they were nobodies then and not even remembered now. The Tab Hunters of Brixton I guess.